


Labyrinth of Fears

by Ange_de_la_Mort



Series: Maze of Illusions [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Sherlock (TV), Thor (2011), Thor (2011) RPF
Genre: Charming Assholes, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One-Sided Loki/Tom?, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ange_de_la_Mort/pseuds/Ange_de_la_Mort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom has a stalker, Sherlock and John have a new case, and Loki has a lot of issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for the “Softer Side of Loki” - contest held over at the [Loki-Hiddleston group](http://loki-hiddleston.deviantart.com/). Even so, there might not a lot of “softness” involved. Also, the main character is not Loki, but Tom. Yes, this might seem like I’m missing the point of the contest, but bear with me, it will all work out in the end.
> 
> The fic is based on a phone-RP I had with the wonderful [Vauvenal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vauvenal/pseuds/Vauvenal), who might also be doing one or two illustrations for this fic. Should she do so, I’ll state the link over here. (If not, I’ll be pouting and going all puppy-eyes on her.)

On the first day of the end of the world, a cold winter's morning, Tom awoke from an uneasy sleep. The sun hadn't gone up yet, which meant he was lying in the darkness with his eyes open, his gaze fixed at the wall, on which the shadows of the trees outside the window casted gruesome illusions and distorted images, reminding him of grotesque monsters and eerie beings, not unlike those he'd seen in his dreams.  
  
A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, made him shiver as the fragments of his memory assembled to compose at least a fraction of what he'd seen: In his dream, fire and ice ruled over the world, flames devoured the earth, destroying and annihilating everything in their way wihout leaving anything behind except for dead and burned land and lonely wilderness. Ice covered the seas and locked all the living beings underneath. He could still hear the screams - countless screams of countless creatures, full of agony and pain in their last, futile fight against an inescapable fate -, could still see things in the most subconsius corners of his mind that made tears come to his eyes.  
  
With shaking fingers, he turned on the lights of his loyal bedside lamp to make his way across the dimly lit room to his bathroom. A long shower - not too cold, not too hot - shooed away even the last sad and frightening thoughts of nightmares and dystopiae and an Armageddon that could surely never happen like this. Life's too wonderful for stupid dreams, he thought while slowly dressing himself and then putting the kettle on. To reduce the waiting times, he stepped out of his front door and in the general direction of his postbox, breathed in the cold air with a smile, heard and felt the snow crunching under his feet. He was humming a melody - some sort of jingle without any real meaning - while opening the postbox, saw the obligatory, unnecessary advertisments and pulled a face - he should really stick a 'No Ads!' note to his mail box -, when something cought his eyes: a small, white envelope; no recipient, no sender.  
  
He frowned and reached out for it, turned it in his hands. Nothing on the back, either. How unnecessarily secretice, he thought and opened the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper that was inside.  
  
And immediately wished he'd never done so.  
  
In small, fine handwriting - not unlike his own -, there was a single sentence put on the marbled paper: _Are you ready to perish, Thomas?_  
  
The cold Tom suddenly felt had nothing at all to do with the winter.  
  
-  
  
On the third day of the end of the world, Sherlock Holmes got a phone call. Sadly, he was too busy to actually take it (he was currenctly sitting at the cramped, narrow space of his make-shift lab - also known as "the kitchen table" -, conducting one of his little experiments), but not too busy to tell John that "If it's Mycroft, tell him I'm not interested. Also, it was his assistant. She has a fake right heel", which could mean anything or nothing at all at the same time.  
  
Thankfully, the call was not from Mycroft, John found out as he looked at the unknown number. However, the relief he felt was short-lived, when all he could hear from the other end of the line was an eery silence, only broken by someone breathing heavily. John blinked once, twice, then said: "Hello?"  
  
"Is this Sherlock Holmes?" A man's voice. Deep, not unpleasant to listen to, though the words came out choked, like he was short of crying.  
  
"No. His colleague."  
  
"I need to speak to him. Please." Urgent, now, drawing in shaky breaths.  
  
"Are you a client? Wouldn't you like to come over and - "  
  
"I fear for my life."  
  
This meant, yes, he probably was a client. Who couldn't leave his house for some reason. Very well. John told him to wait a second and put the phone on speaker, slid it onto the small free space on the table next to Sherlock and his microscope. "A client," he whispered.  
  
Sherlock snorted. "You have as long as it takes for hydrochloric acid to burn through eye tissue, so be quick."  
  
"It's not actually his eye," John stated, trying to be helpful.  
  
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line and Sherlock snorted again, impatiently this time. "For Christ's sake, just tell me your name and your problem. And _please_ be quick and not boring about it."  
  
"... my name is Tom Hiddleston. And I fear I'm being stalked."


	2. Chapter 2

This time, Sherlock gave a sigh and shook his head slightly. "Go to the police and don't bother me with such trivialites." He hung up without giving the man any time to even think of an answer to defend himself and his case, before shifting his complete attention back to his experiment.  
  
"Sherlock ... "  
  
"What? I told him not to be boring!"  
  
And with this, he resumed working in silence while John rolled his eyes and closed his fingers around the mobile - just as it began to ring again. Recognizing the number, John smiled and raised his exebrows. _Not giving up so easily, are you?_ he thought and pushed the speaker button again.  
  
"In two days, I have received exactly two hundred letters describing in very elaborate and colourful language what will happen to me and how I will die. Included are some very personal tidbits of information nobody - who isn't me - can possibly know. Two hundred letters without any information about the sender. No stamps. No address - not even mine. He must have delivered them all by himself." He drew a deep breath and resumed talking. "And now, Mister Consulting Detective, comes the best thing: There are no signs of anybody walking by my house. The letters just _appear_. And the police can't help me. So, is this exciting enough for you or do I need to include a sticky note to my last will that says the famous Sherlock Holmes was too lazy to solve _such a simple case_?" The man sounded calm and collected, almost cold in his biting cynism (or rather gallows humour?), and John could see the left corner of Sherlock's mouth curl upwards, which could only mean one thing.  
  
So, John picked up the mobile and said: "Mr. Hiddleston? State your address, please. We'll be with you in a minute."  
  
-  
  
Westminster was not very far away. Ten, fifteen minutes at most if they took a cab. They did. Mostly so that Sherlock could free his overly busy mind from unnecessery distractions to be fully able to concentrate on the case (should he take it. He still wasn't too sure, though he decided to give it the case of a doubt and dare a closer look). And - of course - to give him the time to google Tom Hiddleston.   
"An actor", he said, frowning.  
  
"Is that bad?"  
  
"I have met a few actors before," Sherlock pondered, tapping on his smartphone with a fingertip. "A bunch of liars and broken creatures, all of them. They come from shattered homes, had parents who didn't love them and can't cope with who they are, so they try to be someone else. Lying is in their blood, in their system, and you can never know when they tell a flat-out lie or one they believe to be the truth in their twisted selves. I can't say I like them very much."  
  
"... well, we can't all have your charming and honest personality."  
  
"Very funny, John."  
  
They both smirked and kept silent for the rest of the ride.  
  
-  
  
The cab was John's to pay (as always. If he didn't know better, John would think Sherlock had actually no idea that in this world, one needed to pay for the trivial little things in life like cabs and food and an internet flatrate), which he did with a sigh and then hurried after Sherlock, who was already on his way towards the house that bore the address Hiddleston had given them. John caught up with him just as he was ringing the doorbell.  
"It's a nice house," John said and looked around. It really was. It resembled those houses one could see on TV advertisments. _You want a house like this_ , those ads always teased, _so just let us lend you a nice amount of money you'll never be able to pay back, and when we come to celloect your debts, we'll not only throw you into prison, but also receive this neat house to sell the next idiot. Or would you rather want to play the lottery? For an overcharged price, you'll get the chance to win a tenth of a home like this one. Just think of your children, will you? It's even got a garden for the little fellows to play in._ Hiddleston's house had a garden as well, John would bet on it. "Though it's a bit ... big for just one man living here."  
  
"He inherited it." Sherlock folded his arms behind his back, waiting impatiently for the door to open.  
  
"... oh. How do you ... oh, forget it." There was no point in asking, he knew this himself.   
  
Finally, after what feeled like an eternity, the door opened. Slowly. John could see half of a face, a blood-shot blueish-grey eye with dark circles underneath. "Erm ... Mr. Hiddleston? We are the detectives. You called us," he added, because he wasn't sure if the man behind the door was the mental state to remember by himself. Sherlock shot him an odd look, one he'd learned to a) decipher as 'Really, John?' and b) ignore very profoundly. "May we come in?" he asked instead.  
  
"Oh. Yes, of course." Shaking fingers worked on the chain that held the door half-closed, and as soon as the door swung open, Hiddleston stammered an apology. "I'm not really myself these days."  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock said, storming into the corridor. "Now, tell us what happened. Leave the unnecessary things out, and -" He pointed a finger at the man. "- be quick about it!"  
  
"Take your time," John said at the same time, seeing the fleeting look of distress crossing Hiddleston's features. "Please."  
  
The house was even nicer on the inside, John noticed as they entered the living-room. Large windows framed the view to a small garden - _Ha!_ he tought. _Knew it!_ -, letting in enough sunlight to brightly illuminate the room. There was scarcely any furniture, but the few items were nicely placed. An armchair and a sofa, both in a friendly beige colour, a scenery painting on one of the walls. There even was a flower-vase on the small table next to the door. And, of course, the was the noticeable, but dramaturgically lastly mentioned sofa-table in the middle of the room. It was eye-catching. Not because of his beauty, but because of the enormous stack of letters on top of it.   
"Are those ... ?"  
  
Hiddleston nodded gravely. "In all their glory."  
  
To say that Sherlock leaped on the letters like a predator on its prey would be an exaggeration, albeit only a slight one. He snatched one of the envelopes, regarded it from all angles. "This one hasn't been opened."  
  
"Most of them haven't," Hiddleston admitted und sat on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. "After about ten, twenty, fifty of those I couldn't bear to look at the others."  
  
Unlike Sherlock, obviously. He opened one letter after another, read the few lines over and over again. John could see him frown and reached out for one of those blasted things as well to satisfy the bizarre and morbid curiosity that had grabbed his mind with forceful claws. He unfolded the marbled paper, looked at the flourished handwriting.  
  
 _I will lay my fingers around your throat and choke every breath of life out of you._  
  
John shivered, laying the paper aside. For a moment, he hesitated and reached out for another envelope. And another. And another.  
  
 _You will be mine soon.  
  
I already imagine your eyes closing forever.  
  
Maybe I am right behind you. Can you feel my breath tickling the back of your neck?_  
  
John shivered again und swallowed audibly, looked over his shoulder, half expecting someone to stare down at him and flash a toothy, creepy grin. There was nothing. Of course not. He shook his head about himself and shared a sympathetic glance with Hiddleston. Honestly, with things like these it was awfully easy to become paranoid.   
  
"Ridiculous."  
  
Except if one was Sherlock Holmes with his non-existing sense of tact or self preservation. Hiddleston seemed to be unsettled as well, for he raised his brows and tilted his head to the side. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Those threats are ridiculous and not to be taken seriously. Please tell me this is not the reason you're avoiding the rest of your house, including your bedroom."  
  
Hiddleston's eyes grew wide and he leaned forward, looking at Sherlock with confusion shining in his eyes. "How do you know?"  
  
There was a flicker of amusement crossing Sherlock's features and the left corner of his mouth twitched like it always did when somebody asked him - knowingly or not - to please show off. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked, and John rolled his eyes because _here we go_. No matter how much he liked Sherlock and no matter how impressive his intelligence and knowledge were, did he have to do this every time? Considering that it was Sherlock, John mused that yes, yes he did have to show off. Or he might explode one day. "There's a blanket underneath your sofa, which means you didn't want us to see it, which - in turn - shows clearly that the blanket doesn't normally belong into this room. I can still see the faint marks of a rough texture on your face -" Hiddleston blinked and rubbed his cheek. "- that coincidentally matches the texture of the sofa cushions. Furthermore, you're wearing your clothes for the third day in a row - as seen by the faint tea blotch on your right sleeve -, and since wardrobes are normally in the bedroom, I assume that you have not stepped a foot into it since Saturday. I would ask if I'm correct or not, but we both know I am. The real question is," he said and pressed his fingertips together, rested his chin on them, "what are you fearing so much that you're avoiding the first floor and your bedroom?"  
  
The look of astonishment stayed on Hiddleston's face for another moment, then he lowered his gaze und breathed in, licking over his chapped lips, obviously trying to find a suitable beginning for his story. Sherlock stared at him impatiently while John tried to make the uneasy silence go away by tucking the letters into their respective envelopes. Then Hiddleston nodded and lookepd up. "It was like this ..."  
  
 _Again and again he caught himself staring at the written words, forming them with his mouth, tasting them on his tongue. They tasted like death and terror and he shivered, bit his lower lip. A threat. A promise. Was he ready to perish? Of course not. How could he be? Who had written this? And why? Had he angered someone gravely, done something bad, hurt somebody in any way he wasn't even aware of? Somewhere in a part of his mind that wasn't overcome by fear, he could hear the kettle whistle for attention. With slow, unsure steps he returned to his house and made a face. Somehow, he didn't really care for a cup of tea anymore.  
  
He remained seated at the kitchen table for a long time, the cup still in his hand, even though the tea had gone cold some time ago. He was still looking at the letter as if it were a bizarre and disgusting insect.   
  
A joke, he told himself. Nothing more. A tasteless jape. That had to be it. And Tom was only scared by it because of his nightmare. Yes. That sounded good, sounded plausible, sounded - oh god, please, let this be all. He nodded to himself, shooting one last glare at the envelope and letter, and then tore both apart. And when the paper ripped into two, four, countless pieces, Tom could feel the weight of the world being lifted off his shoulders. He threw the paper snippets into his rubbish bin and stood up, leaving the cup on the sink. All he needed, Tom told himself as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, as he opened the window to let in the fresh and cold air, was sleep.  
  
And sleep did come. Not as much as he had hoped for, but when did he ever get enough sleep? He smiled to himself and rubbed his neck, opening his eyes to ... see the window closed. He frowned. But ... hadn't he left it open? He jerked upright at once, rushed to the window.   
  
There was a letter on the window sill.  
  
No, he thought as he picked it up and opened it. No, no, no.  
  
'You should not leave the window open, Thomas. I wish not for you to get a cold, so I closed it. Be more thoughtful in the future, yes?'_  
  
"That guy," John remarked as soon as Hiddleston had finished, "is not only fifty, but a million shades of fucked up."   
  
"Remarkably said, John," Sherlock commented, obviously missing the reference, and tapped a fingernail to his cheek. "I should take a look at the first floor."  
  
"Feel free to do whatever necessary," Hiddleston said and shrugged, "but I'm not coming with you. Nothing can ever make me go there again."  
  
"Good. Then you're not standing in my way when I perform the fine science of dactyloscopy."  
  
Hiddleston frowned. "You're going to do _what_ in my bedroom?"  
  
"Taking fingerprints. Honestly, with your upbringing I'd expected more general knowledge from you." Sherlock got up and made his way to the staircase while John and Hiddleston exchanged looks and John tried to telepathically tell him that yes, Sherlock was always like this, and yes, one had to get used to it, and _oh yes_ , he would solve the case in no time.  
  
"By the way," Sherlock said and looked at both of them. "When your stalker is able to get into your room while you sleep, what on earth makes you think you're save in the living-room?" And with that, he disappeared from view, leaving a very mortified Tom Hiddleston all alone.  
  
"I'm never going to sleep again," he whispered, sinking down on the sofa in shock, and John could do nothing but lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

Upstairs, Sherlock found a few doors leading to various rooms. The first one was a small broom cabinet. Nothing of importance. Then a guest bedroom with a comfortable-looking bed, a small wardrobe and two bookshelves. When Sherlock took a closer look, he identified various copies of Shakespeare's works. How cliché. But somehow expected from an actor. Next to Shakespeare stood Fitzgerald, Hornby, some biographies of historical persons and a handful of comic books. Well, that was unexpected. He reached for one of the comics, looking at the cover. _Thor_. Ah yes, of course. He'd seen the poster of a stylized hammer in the entrance hall.  
  
The next door led to a second bathroom, larger than the one he'd seen downstairs. This one had a tub and some shelves stacked with more personal hygiene articles than any human being could use in five lifetimes, as well as an electric razor - which Hiddleston could really need right now, he looked like he hadn't shaved in days, which - of course - he hadn't, and a small box containing green contact lenses. Hmm.  
  
Finally. Hiddleston's bedroom. Most likely the content of every teenage girls' wet dreams, if a glance at the man's IMDB page was to be believed. It looked completely ordinary. Still, Sherlock took the time to open every drawer, just because a) he could and b) he had to get to know his client as well as possible in order to make sure he was able to see through every lie the man might throw at him. Nothing special in his wardrobe (normal people would maybe wonder why on earth a man needed four different leather jackets, but Sherlock wasn't normal people). Alarm clock set to 6.30 am. Early riser, even on the weekend. Hm. The content of one of the drawers made him raise his eyebrows and think that the poor fangirls would be very disappointed if they found out, but Sherlock was not one to judge or care.  
  
Instead, he focused his attention towards the window and pondered. It could only be opened and closed from the inside. Could the stalker have climbed the wall and gotten through the window? Could he have closed it, written the letter and placed it on the window sill, then left through the front door? That was a possibility. But Hiddleston would have told him if the front door had been unlocked.   
  
That was something he would have to investigate later, but for now he reached inside the pockets of his coat, producing a notebook, a tiny brush and a small jar containing aluminium powder, which he applied to the places where he suspected the stalker could have left fingerprints - the handle, the lower parts of the frame, the window sill and a suspicious looking blotch on the glass. Everything went as expected and the powder made a few very fine prints visible to the eye. Sherlock smiled, took out his phone to take pictures of every single fingerprint and then looked around. Thankfully, he found a piece of adhesive tape on Hiddleston's desk that he could use to transfer the prints to his notebook. A small success, but a success nonetheless.  
  
-  
  
When he came back downstairs, he could hear the two men talking while sitting at the kitchen table. The smell of freshly-brewed tea was in the air, making Sherlock smile despite himself.  
  
"So," John said, "why did you check your post box at five-thirty on a Saturday? Seems a bit early, don't you think?"  
  
"Well ... " The clinking sound of a teacup being put on a table. "I'd just come back from a promotional tour the night before and I'd been too tired - and not sober enough, to be honest - to check right away."  
  
"Means we can't say for sure when the first letter had arrived," John pondered, mirroring Sherlock's thoughts.  
  
 _And we can't find out, because Hiddleston threw it away. Unless ..._ Sherlock stepped into the kitchen. "I guess you haven't emptied your trash bin since Saturday, have you? Oh, don't give me that confused look, it's annoying. Just answer my question."   
  
Hiddleston shot a glance at John, who shrugged, and Sherlock would have loved to strangle them both, but then Hiddleston looked at him again and said that no, he hadn't and _finally_ they were getting somewhere. He stuck his hand in the bin, rummaging around and - ha! - somewhere between the remains of an apple and some carrots he found two scraps of paper that belonged to the letter.  
  
"What do you need that for?"  
  
"Thanks to science and reasonable thinking, I can find out when the letter had been written. If you were so kind to go and fetch me a dozen or so more of your stalker's love letters, I can compare the handwriting and ink to see if we have to deal with one single person or with a group of people."  
  
Hiddlestons face fell and his brows raised in uncertainty. "You mean ... there could be more than one person doing all this?"  
  
"That's what I just said!" Sherlock snapped, voice thick with impatience. "So would you please do as I told you?" He waited until the man got up and left the room, then muttered a hushed "Finally!" and quickly took his fingerprints from the teacup.  
  
"You could have just asked him, you know?" John said with a sigh.  
  
"This is quicker and I don't have to deal with his stupid questions."  
  
"Sherlock, give the man break! He's scared out of his mind!"  
  
"That is no reason to - oh, that was fast," he said with a false grin while turning and hiding his notebook and brush behind his back, inwardly sighing with relief as he felt John taking and pocketing both items. "Well, thank you." He took the envelopes with one hand and patted Hiddleston's shoulder with the other. "You will hear from us soon."  
  
"What?" The man looked crestfallen. "But what should I do in the meantime?"  
  
"Well, hiding under a blanket and pretending that as long as you can't see them, they can't see you either, has been a good strategy so far, why change it? See you soon, Mr. Hiddleston."  
  
-  
  
When they got back to 221B ("Good evening, Mrs. Hudson. How's the hip today, Mrs. Hudson? Oh, that sounds wonderful, Mrs. Hudson."), Sherlock did his favourite thing: Ordering John around. "Look him up on Google, Youtube, wherever you can. I want you to watch his interviews, read his Twitter. I want to know what he thinks, what his hobbies are, his favourite food, whom he sleeps with, whom he's friends with, everything!" And while Sherlock himself spent the next hour seated at the kitchen table, analysing the ink and handwriting and fingerprints (with the help of his trusty combination of a microscope, three different kinds of chemicals, a syringe, a glass of water and his overly brilliant mind), John got the most intenste headache of his lifetime. Which is saying much, considering he was living with Sherlock Holmes.  
  
"I don't get this guy," he said, rubbing his temples, when Sherlock came over to him, looking over his shoulder. "One minute he's sophisticated and talking about Shakespeare and acting, the next minute he's throwing up gang signs and running around screaming 'LOKI'D' and telling everyone he's a prankster and the actual God of Mischief."  
  
"Hm."  
  
"What? What is it? I know that sound. It's not a happy sound."  
  
Sherlock sat down and leaned forward, a small wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. "There might indeed be a lot of pranking involved. But not against Hiddleston." When John looked at him questioningly, he hummed and said. "No fingerprints, except for his own. Of course, the stalker might have worn gloves, but that doesn't explain Hiddleston's fingerprints on letters he - allegedly - hasn't opened."  
  
"But ... " But why should he lie? He really looked like he was scared, like he feared for his life. John had seen his fingers shaking, his eyes darting from left to right. It ... could have been an act, yes. But why? "What about the ink?"  
  
"This is where it gets interesting. All of the letters must have been written between Friday and Saturday. Same handwriting, same brand of ink. Seems to be a designer brand, high iron-content. Even a bit of sulfur. We need to check later which manufactues use sulfur in their ink, if they sell their products in London and if someone there can identify Hiddleston as their customer." He paused for a moment. "You remember him saying he woke up and found a letter on his window sill?" John nodded and Sherlock gave a sigh. "He wants us to believe a stalker climbed the trees in front of his house without making a sound, climbed through the window, closed it and then stood next to a sleeping Hiddleston only to _write a letter_ about it - which means he must have had paper, pen, envelope and ink with him. And then our stalker vanished from sight? How? That's ... that's simply impossible."  
  
"So you think we're being toyed with?"  
  
"I don't _think_ , I _know_. We just have to find out why."  
  
"A PR gag?"  
  
"Then he would have gone straight to the press instead of barricading himself at home. No, there must be another reason ... One I will find out." He got up again, striding over to the door, grabbing his coat. "Come on, John."  
  
"What? Where are we going?"  
  
"To Hiddleston's house of course. Tonight, we will find out if whether there really is a stalker delivering letters at night or not."  
  
-  
  
Four eyes were able to see more than two, that was for sure. John understood that perfectly well. He also understood that it made sense to split up, so each of them could observe a different part of the house. What he did _not_ get was why it had to be him hiding in the bushes behind Hiddleston's house while Sherlock had found a nice, warm spot in a café on the opposite side of the street that had open all night. Not that John was envious. Not at all. He mused that being Sherlock Holmes had his advantages, and being able to delegate the shitty parts of the work to someone else - namely John - was a good advantage.  
  
So, no ... he was not envious.  
  
Not at all.  
  
Maybe a little bit.  
  
But only because after a short time it started to snow.  
  
-  
  
The night turned out to be absolutely uneventful. Sherlock called him every other hour on his mobile to ask if something had happened, which both of them had to decline. Nothin had happened. Nothing was happening. And at dawn, Sherlock called again to say that probably nothing was going to happen at all.  
  
His joints were aching and he was cold and tired and _maybe_ a bit unhappy about having had to spend a night uselessly observing a house (especially since he had to go to work soon), but he had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was a good friend. If only because Sherlock told him to sit down, have some coffee and a nice, warm breakfast.  
  
Pity that he never had to chance to actually enjoy any of it, because right after he had placed his order, Sherlock's mobile rang.  
  
-  
  
On the fourth day of the end of the world, Tom Hiddleston awoke to a strange and unfamiliar sound. He groaned, turning over and snuggling deeper under his blanket, frowning in his half-sleep when the sound - and smell - did not stop, but instead grew in intensity. It was a crackling, sizzling noise and smelled not unlike a campfire licking over wood and paper and ashes.  
  
... wait. That should not be possible. He didn't even have a fireplace. Slowly, Tom opened his eyes and blinkes. His eyes widened in disbelief und he jerked upright. With shaking fingers, he grasped his mobile phone to redial a certain number. "Mr. Holmes?" he said, his voice breaking, quivering. "Could you please come over? I ... "  Words failed him and the only sound coming out of his mouth was a choked sob as his eyes were still fixed on the wall.  
  
One word, one single word was burnt into the concrete.  
  
 _Today._


	4. Chapter 4

_How?_ That was the question running through John's mind. How was that possible? They had observed the house for the whole night. They hadn't so much as glanced away for even one second. Yes, maybe except for the five minutes where they'd decided to finally go home, but nobody could have broken into Hiddleston's house in those five minutes. There were no signs of anybody breaking in, for that matter. No broken glass, no picked locks. Either the stalker had his very own spare key or ...   
  
He shifted his gaze from Sherlock to the man, who was sitting on the sofa, blanket draped over his lap, feet and chest bare, eyes wide and red from crying, skin pale with fear.   
One couldn't act that. Nobody was _that_ good at acting. But Sherlock was right - what was happening here was simply and absolutely impossible. _He must have done it himself_ , his mind whispered. _But he doesn't look like a shizophranic madman or like he's so despereate for PR. He looks so ... nice. So, why? If it's him, why does he do this? And if it's not him ..._ John shuddered, looking back at the burnt wall. If the slight possibility that there really was a crazed stalker turned out to be true, then it was like nothing they'd ever seen and fought before.  
  
"What kind of acid does that?" Sherlock wondered, leaning closer to the wall, examining it without actually touching it (John would say he'd finally learned that safety came first, but this was still Sherlock "safety is for ordinary people" Holmes). "It looks like this has been burned into the wall _days_ ago. But we were here _yesterday_. How can this -"  
  
"Does it matter?" Hiddleston - still white as a sheet - looked up to him, anger blazing in his eyes. "You - you called this boring! Trivial! You boasted about how you'd find this madman in no time at all, yet you've done _nothing_!" The last word was shouted and Hiddleston clutched the blanket so tightly that John feared he'd somehow rip it apart. He glared at Sherlock, whose eyes grew cold. John was ready to intervene, should the staring-contest turn into something more serious, more feral, but then Hiddleston lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I just ... I just realized I'm not safe in my own home anymore."  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said. "You should move out for some time."  
  
"You could stay at our place," John suggested quickly. "Whoever did this, they don't know us, don't know where we live. You'd be safe there." _And also_ , he added silently, exchanging glances with Sherlock, who gave a court nod, _we can keep an eye on you._  
  
-  
  
"You can have my room," John said as he helped Hiddleston with carrying his suitcase up the stairs to 221B.  
  
"No. Really. Thank you for the offer, but -"  
  
"It's no problem at all, honestly. And I insist." He smiled broadly. "Don't worry about causing any difficulites, Mr. Hi-"  
  
"Tom."  
  
"Beg your pardon?"  
  
The man gave a sheepish smile. "You let me borrow your bed for an unspecified amount of time, I think that puts us on a first-name basis, don't you agree?"  
  
John smiled again and nodded. "John. It's nice to ... well, meet you doesn't quite fit."  
  
"If you're finished exchanging pleasentries," Sherlock called impatiently from the top of the stairs, "could we get back to the case? You know, the important one? Remember?" He disappeared into the apartment, smartphone already in hand, typing various keywords and muttering under his breath. Hiddles- Tom brought his suitcase up the remaining set of stairs, and Sherlock made a gesture to urge John closer. "There," he said. "that's our manufacturer. The only company to use sulfur in their ink in all of Britain." He pushed a few buttons. "And these are the stationeries they deliver to. We can ignore these two, they've gone bankrupt in the meantime."   
  
Which meant, there was exactly one store in all of London where they could get answers or at least clues to their questions. How convenient. It seemed a litte far-fetched to expect answers exactly _there_ , but stranger things had happened in their time together ... and especially during the last two days.  
  
"You want me to go to 'Smug' and see how smug they really are?" When Sherlock only shot him that 'You're not funny, so please don't even try to be'-look, John only shrugged. "And what are you going to do?"  
  
"I'll be going back to Hiddleston's house. If we're lucky, I find our very own 'instant death threats'-kit." He looked at the staircase. "Mr. Hiddleston," he said loudly, "we're going on with the investigation. Make yourself at home and _don't_ touch anything!"  
  
"And please, don't get scared by the fridge," John added, helpful as ever.  
  
-  
  
The first thing Tom decided to do after looking around 'his' new bedroom, was to take a shower. He really needed one. So he carefully folded his clothing (if he were still at home, he'd have simply thrown them into the laundry basket, but he neither knew if John even had one nor if he would object to that) and stepped under the delightfully warm spray of water.With a deep sigh, he closed his eyes, enjoying how countless drops of water rained down on him, easing his tense shoulders, caressing his taut muscles. His black hair clung to his face and he smiled at the feeling of being wet and almost clean as he reached for a bottle of shampoo.  
  
About thirty minutes later, he turned off the shower and shivered at the sudden cold, wrapping himself in a bathing gown and stepping back into the room. Shaving was next. It was necessary as well. When he looked into the mirror, he grimaced and nodded at his reflexion. Very necessary. He grabbed his razor (thankfully he'd thought to bring it along), watching his mirror image idly, watching the way his stubble died a very deserving death.  
  
And then his reflexion winked at him.  
  
Tom flinched, cutting his cheek in the process. "Shit!" he cursed when he really wanted to say "What the everlasting fuck was that?" He blinked, leaning in closer, regarding his reflexion with a very concerned face, putting a hand to the mirror. Nothing happend. Well, of course not. What had he expected? His reflexion swatting his hand away and scolding him? Surely not ...   
  
_You're just a little jumpy, Tom_ , he thought to himself. _Well, how could you not be?_ He closed his eyes for a second and nodded to himself. _Yes. That's it. I'm seeing things, nothing more._  
  
Partially reassured, he grabbed his phone in case John or Sherlock called and ventured downstairs and into the kitchen, where he found out very quickly that he actually wasn't hungry at all ("Oh my God!" he yelled out loud. "Is that a _foot_?"), and instead entered the living-room to sit down on the sofa and take a look around, frowning. Was that a Cluedo board nailed to the wall? With a knife, no less. Then again, he'd known Sherlock Holmes was a bit eccentric, but he hadn't even dreamed of _how_ eccentric he really was.  
  
Still, Sherlock Holmes was an interesting man, and if one got to know him better, he might even turn out to be a very likable man. Hm. Would he like to get to know him better? He thought about that, and thought about his long, slender, almost bony fingers, thought about his weirdly crooked smile, thought about bright and intelligent eyes that never seemed to decide what colour they had.  
  
And then he thought that yes, he actually would like to get to know him. Later. When this situation was over.  
  
But for now, he thought about occupying himself with some sort of distraction. The TV, maybe ...   
  
Just as he'd finished that thought, his phone beeped to tell him he'd gotten a text message.  
  
-  
  
'Smug' was a shop not exactly at the other end of London, but still quite far away and even better hidden. John had to admit had he not known of the existence of the shop, he would have missed the small, dark brown wooden door entirely. Or maybe he would have mistaken it for the entrance to some shop owner's home.   
  
Inside, he found not only a bigger selection of 'Happy Birthday' cards than he'd ever wanted to see, but also an elderly man, hair greying at the temples, eyes kind and warm. A clerk, if his white dress shirt with the slogan 'I feel smug' was to be believed. Very good. Just who John needed.  
  
"Can I help you?" the clerk asked, lips parting into a smile as he saw what he most likely believed to be a customer.  
  
"Oh, yes." John watched the man as he explained his problem and profession (it wasn't a lie when he said he was a private detective. Not a complete lie, anyway. He was friends with one, did that count?), watched the man scratching his temple in confusion and deep thought, watched him crossing his arms in front of his chest. "So, do you remember anybody buying a large amount of dark-green ink and marbled paper?"  
  
"There was one gentleman who bought all of our supplies, yes," the man said after a short moment. "Last Thursday, I believe."  
  
"Great! Can you ... can you describe him to me?"  
  
And so the clerk did and told John about a tall man, well over six feet, with a slim frame and long-ish limbs, high cheek bones and forehead, black hair that went down to his shoulders.  
  
John looked at him in surprise, bordering on horror. That ... sounded just like Tom. So he _had_ done all of this. But hadn't he said he'd been out of the country until Friday night? Of course that might have been a lie, but still ... "Is this the man you saw?" he asked, looking up a picture of Tom on his phone, showing it to the clerk.  
  
"Yes! That's him. Only ..."  
  
"Only what?"  
  
"His eyes are wrong. They weren't blue. They were green."  
  
John frowned. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Oh yes," said the clerk. "I still have nightmares about those eyes."  
  
-  
  
 _1 message from own number._  
  
Tom blinked in confusion. He hadn't texted himself. Or had he? No. Surely not. Maybe his phone was bugged. Frowning and with a very bad feeling in his guts, he opened the text.  
  
 _Leave the TV off. There's nothing good airing, anyway._  
  
A sudden cold consumed his body, like a freezing hand clenching around his heart and throat. He stared at his phone in horror. He opened his mouth to say something, but only a whimper escaped his lips. _Who are you? How are you doing this? Am I losing my mind?_  
  
With shaking hands, he reached for the remote, turning the TV on. The screen stayed black, and just as Tom shook his head and wondered if the thing was broken, small, white letters appeared one by one, spelling out a single sentence. _I told you nothing good is airing._  
  
This time, Tom screamed, turning the telly off out of reflex.  
  
And then he stayed perfectly still, not daring to move at all. He'd never thought he'd miss the presence of Sherlock Homes so soon ...   
  
-  
  
He didn't have to wait very long. Just ten, twenty minutes later, Sherlock stormed into the apartment, eyes ablaze with a fury he directed immediately at the man covering on his sofa like a picture of misery. "We have to talk."  
  
"Did you find out something?" Hiddleston asked, a look of hope on his face that was just as fake as the rest of his sob story.  
  
"Definitely." Sherlock towered over him. "I've found out that you're a liar."  
  
"What?"  
  
He breathed in deeply, sitting down in his armchair and closing his eyes. _Don't yell at him, stay calm_ , he told himself. "You," he started anew, "are a liar. Not surprising, actually. All of you actors are. But _this_ , this is a whole other level of lying." He opened his eyes, watching the man. "A clerk in a stationery store has identified you. He's seen you buy all the ingredients for your sick little joke last Thursday."  
  
"What? I wasn't even in the country!"  
  
"Of course not. You have an evil twin with slightly longer hair and radioactive green eyes. Which brings me up to the question why you even bothered to wear contacts without changing anything else about your appearance."  
  
"I don't ... "  
  
"You have contacts in your bathroom."  
  
"I ... " Hiddleston blinked. "They were for a movie. But I can't wear contacts. I just didn't come around to throwing them away."  
  
Oh yes, of course. Sherlock snorted, slamming a hand onto the table, making not only Hiddleston, but also John flinch. "Stop it!" he shouted. "It's enough! You've had your fun. Even now, after I know the truth, you still insinst on lying? Just stop it and tell us why you're so desperate for attention! Didn't your parents love you enough when you were a child?"  
  
Hiddleston's eyes were wide, disbelieving, and his mouth opened, but no sound came out of it. When Sherlock wanted to yell at him to _stop wasting his time_ , something entirely unexpected happened: His phone rang. And it was Hiddleston's number on the display. Sherlock blinked in surprise, then answered the call. "Yes?"  
  
"Hello, Mr. Holmes." A voice that sounded just like the man sitting on his sofa, only with a cold, hard edge. Even this short greeting was more snarled than said.  
  
"... who is this?"  
  
"Leave the room and close the door behind you. I want only you to hear this."  
  
 _Oh, do you?_ Sherlock thought, pushing the speaker button, looking at John and nodding. "I did."  
  
The man hung up.  
  
Sherlock cursed out loud and got up, leaving for his own bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. _Come on, come on, come on!_  
  
The phone rang again.  
  
"Never lie to me again, Sherlock Holmes. It is unwise and will be punished."  
  
"Punished? What will you do? Hang up on me again?"  
  
"Oh no, I will simply vanish from sight, without telling you who I am and how I was able to do the things I did. Also, I might feel the need to torture your dear client to insanity."  
  
"Hm." Sherlock nodded to himself. Of course. He'd expected this much. "And what will you do if I behave?"  
  
The man laughed. "I could say 'You don't know me, but I know you, and I want to play a game', but I fear the reference would just fly right over your head. So ... ," he said, growing serious again. "I have a trade in mind. You do as I say and fullfill my wishes and I give you hints to who I might be and why I might be bothering our dearest Thomas."  
  
"And what are your wishes?"  
  
"A place, where everybody gathers, but nobody ever appears; a place, where enjoyment matters, that has been dead for years. Mr. Holmes, I want you to find this place, to go there tonight. You will find a small parcel there, containing something that is very dear to me. I wish for you to acquire it and take good care of it until I advise you otherwise."  
  
"What's inside?"  
  
"Nothing dangerous. I promise."  
  
"I don't think your promises are of much worth."  
  
The man chuckled. "You might be right about that."  
  
-  
  
When Sherlock came back, Tom had already gotten dressed again, because if he had to endure any more being yelled at, he wanted to - at least - not be naked during this. But Sherlock didn't yell. He didn't even look at him. He just sank down in his armchair, brows creased, fingertips pressed together. "A place, where everybody gathers, but nobody ever appears; a place, where enjoyment matters, that has been dead for years," he murmured again and again.  
  
"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John asked.  
  
"Hm." Sherlock looked at Tom. "The man, who seems to be behind all of this, called me." At Tom's shocked face, he hummed again, explaining his orders and his proposal. "I just need to find out where this place is." He closed his eyes, deep in thoughts.  
  
"Maybe ... "  
  
"Shut up, Mr. Hiddleston."  
  
"But I ... "  
  
"No, you can't help."  
  
Wow. So much about 'maybe it would be nice getting to know him better.' Asshole.  
  
"A club?" John wondered. "It would fit. You gather there, but don't know anybody else, and nobody knows you. That's why no one really appears there."  
  
Sherlock cracked open one eye, thinking. "There would be too many clubs in London. How would we know which one he's talking about?"  
  
"One that has been closed for years," Tom said, flinching as Sherlock shot him a hard glance. "But ... I don't think it's a club. You _appear_ there, even if no one knows your name."  
  
"John, laptop. Look up all abandoned buildings in London."  
  
 _Laptop_ , Tom thought. _Laptop. Internet. Everybody has internet these days, everybody is on Facebook or places like that. Other social networks. Everybody ... meets up there without having to leave the house at all. Without having to appear physically. A place where you can access the internet ... Oh._ "An internet café."  
  
"... of course," Serlock muttered under his breath. "John, look up -"  
  
"Already way ahead of you. It was in the paper this morning." John fetched the newspaper. On page twenty, there was a small article about a local building, that used to be a cyber café, being bought up by some company to use the location for a new bureau complex.  
  
Sherlock looked at the article for a few seconds, then nodded. "Grab your coat, John. You, too, Mr. Hiddleston. Let's go."  
  
Tom couldn't suppress a sigh of relief when he understood that he wouldn't be left alone again.  
  
-  
  
It felt like a particularly dark and cold night as they left the cab and walked the last metres towards the old building. Tom shivered. He felt like someone was watching him, watching his every move. Actually, he presumed, somebody most likely was watching him right now. Wouldn't be the first time. Stalkers tended to do that.  
  
When they finally reached the building, Tom thought that it didn't exactly look inviting. The front door was ripped out of its angles, the windows shattered. More or less every inch of the outer walls were covered in gang signs and graffiti.   
  
"How nice," John mused. "They left the door open for us."  
  
"Then let's hope our little parcel is still there," Sherlock said and entered the café.  
  
John did as well, and Tom remained standing outside for a moment until he gathered all of the courage to step inside, too (it wasn't like he was scared. Really. He'd just seen more than enough creepy things during daytime, he really didn't need to see any more at night as well).  
  
The small cones of light coming from Sherlock's and John's torches illuminated the room partially, giving it a disturbing atmosphere, sliding over old tables, covered in dust, one broken chair, some shelves at the wall and a counter in front of them. Sherlock was crouched under a table while John rummaged through the shelves, pushing aside empty cardboard boxes.  
  
"I've got it!" John yelled after a few minutes of silence, prompting Sherlock to rush over to him.  
  
Tom looked in their direction. And froze. Someone was standing there, right next to them. A black shadow of a man, whose features Tom could not make out at all. The figure turned around, looking directly at Tom, whose face fell and who stumbled backwards slowly. He still couldn't see any of its features except for a broad, toothy grin with sharklike white teeth. Tom bumped into a table, a sound of fear ripped out of his throat.  
  
Sherlock bolted upright, parcel in his hand. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I ... " _Don't you see that?_ he'd wanted to ask, but right then the figure faded with another grin, waving at him. "... nothing. It's nothing. Just my mind playing tricks on me."  
  
"Don't worry, we're here to take care of you," John reassured him.  
  
 _I fear I really need someone to look after me. It's obvious I'm incapable of it myself, anymore._  
  
-  
  
"I've got it," Sherlock said as soon as his phone rang again.  
  
"I was right to believe in you, Mr. Holmes," the man answered and Sherlock could hear him smile. "Have you opened it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do it."  
  
For a moment, Sherlock hesitated. What if it was a bomb, a chemical weapon, something else that was dangerous? Then he wouldn't only hurt himself, but also everyone else in the house. But, admittedly, when had that ever made him not do something? Sherlock opened the parcel, surprised to find ... "A jewel case." He opened it as well, finding himself frowning. A ring, delicately crafted out of silver. It resembled a snake with emerald eyes. When he took it out of the box, he found it to be larger than expected. If he were to slip it on his finger, the tail of the snake would cover the complete back of his hand and the head his whole finger. "Are you a smuggler?"  
  
"No. The ring belongs to me. It had been stolen ages ago. And it is not the only object I want you to reclaim for me."  
  
"Why should I?"  
  
"Because you are curious who I am and what I want from you."  
  
"While we're at that, you promised me a hint."  
  
"Ah, yes. Look up Norse mythology, Mr. Holmes."  
  
Sherlock blinked. "Is that all?"  
  
"Oh, would you like to hear my next request?" When Sherlock didn't answer, he said: "Poor Thomas seems to be quite distressed lately. You should help him out."  
  
"Should I? How so?"  
  
"Maybe you shall ... " He chuckled. "You shall not use your science of deduction, but rather your powers of seduction."  
  
"What do I get out of it?"  
  
"I might speak with you in person, explaining my motives."  
  
Damn. That sounded promising.  
  
"You have all day tomorrow. Use it wisely." And then, he hung up.  
  
Sherlock looked at his phone another few moments. That ... might turn out to be the most complicated case he'd ever had after all.  
  
-  
  
This very night, Sherlock Holmes was lost in thoughts. He had his eyes closed, his back against the table, his violin in his hands. He played various tunes, partially making them up on the spot. As always, it helped him think.  
  
This case was a mess.  
  
As much as he disliked to admit it, he had been wrong. There was no way Hiddleston could be his own stalker, not after the stunt with the phone, for there was no possibility of Hiddleston magically making his phone call Sherlock's number. Also, he suspected, the man might be an actor, but he surely was no ventriloquist. That meant they had to search for a man who _looked_ and _sounded_ almost exactly like Tom Hiddleston. A brother maybe? One Hiddleston himself didn't even know of? A bastard child, jealous at his half-brother's newly acquired success and fame? That ... sounded reasonable. He'd have to keep it in mind and -   
  
He looked up as someone came down the stairs. "You should go back to bed."  
  
Hiddleston looked at him sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. "Can't sleep," he said, as if that was any excuse for disturbing Sherlock's thoughts. "I heard you playing."  
  
"I'm sorry I kept you awake," Sherlock said without meaning it at all.  
  
"That's not it." The man curled up on the sofa, his feet tucked under. "I ... like it."  
  
"Really?" That was a first. All he'd ever heard was John loudly complaining or silently suffering.  
  
"Don't let me disturb you. Go on. If ... if you'd like."  
  
Well, that was exactly his intention, thank you very much for your permission. He closed his eyes again, concentrating only on the violin and his bow. The time passed together with the fleeting music, the tunes of his violin, and when Sherlock opened his eyes again, he saw that the man on the sofa had fallen asleep.  
  
Sherlock couldn't help but smile a little as he slowly lowered the instrument and draped a blanket over Tom's sleeping body.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO plot in this part. If you don't care about the sex, just skip ahead to the next chapter. You won't miss anything.

The fifth day of the end of the world held no malice and Tom awoke at ease. Except for a major case of disorientation, maybe, because at first he had no idea where he was, though it dawned on him quickly. He groaned silenty as he understood that the last few days had not been a very bad nightmare after all. What a pity.  
  
"You're awake," the voice of Sherlock Holmes said, and when Tom looked up, he saw the body of Sherlock Holmes standing next to the sofa, a smile sporting on his face (which was, in a way, very disturbing). "Good morning."  
  
"Good morning," Tom echoed, smiling uncertainly. "I'm sorry I annoyed you last night."  
  
"Oh, not at all." Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "It doesn't happen too often that I have a willing audience."  
  
"Oh." He blinked and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I think I should take a shower." _And brush my teeth. It feels like something crawled in my mouth and died there._  
  
"Take your time. I'm going to prepare breakfast."  
  
Breakfast. Oh. That reminded Tom that he hadn't really eaten anything since two days ago. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled loudly, prompting Tom a give a sigh. "Breakfast sounds lovely. Thank you."  
  
-  
  
"Why is there a foot in your fridge?" Tom asked later when he sat down at the kitchen table, his hair still damp and hanging in his face, his body only sporting a pair of shorts and bathing gown. There really was breakfast waiting for him, complete with toast, eggs and jam (although he almost suspected the food would taste like various body parts).  
  
"It's for an experiment."  
  
"Oh. I understand."  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"No, I don't," Tom echoed dutifully, buttering a piece of toast and taking a bite that tasted just like he was pretty sure Heaven might taste. If Heaven had a taste. ... did Heaven have a taste? He frowned about himself. "Don't you want to eat anything?"  
  
"I never eat on a case."  
  
"Never?" He shook his head in surprise. "Why?"  
  
"Unnecessary distraction."  
  
... oh. He swallowed another bite, already grabbing another piece of toast, prompting Sherlock to chuckle. "What?"  
  
"Nothing, nothing."  
  
Tom looked at him sceptically, but then shrugged and turned back to the more important things: food.  
  
"I wanted to apologize."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"For not believing you and treating you like a criminal."  
  
He shrugged. "No hard feelings. That happens to the best of us."  
  
"Does it?"  
  
Tom blinked, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him. "What?"  
  
"I wanted to ask you something."  
  
"Yes?" Oh. This couldn't be good.  
  
"Do you have a boyfriend?"  
  
Tom almost chocked on his toast. "What? No, I don't have the time for ... wait, why do you think I'd need a _boy_ friend?"  
  
"I have found certain items in your bedroom. The rest was a simple deduction. Am I wrong?"  
  
Shit. Why had he forgotten to hide everything? Oh yes, because he was scared out of his mind. Which was not an excuse. If the press found out, he would most likely be without a job soon. Who'd want a queer supervillain? The comic fans surely not. "Well, I ... "  
  
"I'm not wrong, right?"  
  
He simply nodded and avoided to look up.  
  
"Don't worry. I don't judge you."  
  
"Well, you shouldn't. Considering you and John."  
  
Sherlock blinked. "What about me and John?"  
  
"Aren't you a couple?"  
  
"... no? Should we be?"  
  
Shit again. _Well done, Thomas, why must you suffer from chronic foot-in-mouth disease?_ "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't want to imply anything."  
  
"You didn't."  
  
"Oh. Good."  
  
"You flat out said John and I were a couple."  
  
He gave another sigh and smiled helplessly, apologized very verbose again and again, even though a small part of him wanted to dance with joy. Not a couple. Obviously not gay. But still not judging. That didn't happen too often.  
  
"Actually I asked for another reason."  
  
"And which one could that be?"  
  
Sherlock smiled, looking at him intensely, leaning forward. "I wanted to know if you're still available."  
  
"... huh?" _Oh, yes, well done again, Thomas. Sherlock Holmes is flirting with you and you are gaping at him like a fish. How very intellectual you are right now, he's surely impressed._ "No. I mean, yes. I am. Available."  
  
"That is nice," Sherlock said and before Tom could even protest - which, mind you, he really had no reason to -, Sherlock leaned so close Tom could feel his breath on his cheek. "Very nice, indeed."  
  
Tom shivered, his eyes wide. Without really noticing, he licked his lips. "You ... are very straight-forward."  
  
"I see no need to waste time with trivialities."  
  
Or with doing a crash-course in flirting. Obviously. Somehow, it was fitting that - as clever as Sherlock was - he had no idea about how to behave with people. Also, this talk was absolutely awkward. "You know, it's nice that you're interested, but shouldn't we concentrate on the case?"  
  
"We can't do anything right now. Our friend told me to wait."  
  
"Then shouldn't we wait?"  
  
"We are waiting."  
  
"While you are mentally undressing me."  
  
"Would you prefer me to physically undress you?"  
  
"I would prefer this moment to be less awkward."  
  
"Look. Tom. I may call you Tom, right?" He touched Tom's cheek with one hand, stroking his thumb over Tom's lips - and if this wasn't making Tom shiver in delight, then he didn't know what else could ever do that. It had been way too long since anybody had touched him. "We all are under stress right now. And I know the chemicals that are released during and after sex override this stress and make you forget it for a few hours."  
  
"You're aware this is the weirdest dirty talk I've ever witnessed?"  
  
"Well, it's the first dirty talk _I_ have _ever_ witnessed."  
  
"Oh," Tom said, and he wasn't sure if he should laugh or pity the man. But he didn't have to decide at all, because this was the moment where Sherlock pressed his mouth on Tom's, kissing him in a way that was very pleasant, even thought it was absolutely inexperienced.  
  
When Sherlock drew back, Tom caught himself trying to lean into him, trying to kiss him again, so he reached out, laying a hand on Sherlock's neck and drew him closer. Another kiss followed, and another and another and Tom sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the man in front of him. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, tasting coffee and tea and even a bit of nicotine - honestly, he'd had no idea Sherlock was a smoker -, which didn't disturb him in the least, but instead only made this moment more real. When he finally drew back and opened his eyes, smiled at Sherlock uncertainly, the man looked like he was wondering about something. "... what is it?"  
  
"I still ponder if we should defile John's or my bedroom."  
  
"..." This time, Tom actually laughed out loud and took Sherlock's hand in his own.  
  
-  
  
They almost didn't even make it to the bed - Sherlock's, by the way - when Sherlock fisted a hand in Tom's hair, yanked his head back to sink his teeth into Tom's neck, making him wince and moan at the same time. Fingers were all over his body, slipping the bathing gown from his shoulders, touching his stomach and chest.  
  
Tom kissed him again, biting his lower lip. His own hands were tangled in Sherlock's curls, and then sliding downward over his neck and back, tugging impatiently at his purple shirt. He heard Sherlock's deep laugh rumble in his chest as he worked on the buttons with shaking fingers, opening one after the other, caressing every bit of skin he could reach in the process of getting them both naked. Not that he was wearing much to begin with. A hand creeped between his legs, cupping him through his shorts, and he moaned into the kiss, his hips bucking on their own. Breathy moans escaped his throat and he bit and nibbled on Sherlock's lower lip, his jaw, his neck. "Off with that thing," he demanded, plucking at Sherlock's shirt.  
  
Sherlock only laughed, cupping Tom's cock through his shorts. "Not today. Maybe next time."  
  
"But," he half moaned, half whined, moving his hips, rubbing himself against Sherlock's long fingers.  
  
"This isn't about me today. It's about making you feel better." Sherlock grinned and latched onto his throat again, slipping a hand into Tom's shorts, stroking his cock.  
  
He was bucking underneath him, whimpering and swearing loudly through gritted teeth, clutching at Sherlock's shirt and back for his very life. He yelped when a thumb slid over the head of his cock, moaned out lout as strong fingers wrapped themselves around his whole lenght.  
  
"Relax," Sherlock whispered into his ear, stroking him firmly, eliciting breathy moans and gasps and shouts, as Tom arched his back to get closer to the touches, to this skillful hand that rendered him speechless. Almost.   
  
"More," he groaned, lifting his hips, so that Sherlock could relief him of his shorts, which the man very promptly did. Sherlock spread Tom's legs a little, still stroking him. Smirking, he held his other hand in front of Tom's lips, ordering him to suck. Which Tom did at once, licking at two of his fingers, sucking at his fingertips, making them shine with saliva. He made a disappointed sound when Sherlock withdrew his fingers, though the sound turned into an impatient one very quickly.   
  
One fingertip pressed inside him, making him hiss in some sort of uncomfortable pleasure and moved against him, arching onto the digit, moaning loudly when it slid into him completely. Another one followed soon and together they were spreading him open, moving and crooking inside of him, teasing his insides.  
  
Tom saw stars in front of his eyes and bit down on his lower lip to refrain from screaming. Instead, he rocked back and forth between this wonderfully long fingers inside him and those around his cock. He came with a silent cry, shuddering violently and slumping back against the mattress, breathing hard, his eyes fixating on Sherlock and his fascinated gaze. He was grinning like an idiot as he whispered an unsteady "Oh, fuck, yes".  
  
Sherlock chuckled and pressed a kiss to Tom's forehead. "Go to sleep. You can use my shower later."  
  
He didn't have to say that twice, for Tom's eyes were already sliding shut.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was not surprised at all to find one new message on his phone. A picture, this time. He opened it and frowned, because it was not what he'd expected. Attached was a picture of a silver brooch that depicted an attacking wolf, claws outstretched, teeth bared. Was this what he had to search for next? His phone beeped again, delivering a text message.  
  
 _Well done. I had expected nothing less. I would ask if you enjoyed yourself as well, but frankly, I don't care. Now, let us talk about more important matters: You have twelve hours to return my property to me._  
  
Well, if that wasn't _very_ specific. A brooch could be everywhere. How should he be able to find something so little in such a short time? He tapped his fingertips against his cheek and regarded the phone again. The man had told him to look up Norse mythology, hadn't he?  
  
A quick search on google and google images later told him that no, there was no specific piece of jewellery that could be seen as a religious artifact and fit the description of either the ring or the brooch. There was a section about wedding rings, however, which Sherlock believed to be absolutely not related to the case. Twelve hours to look for a needle in a haystack. It should be an impossible task, but he was very sure the man didn't want to play games with him. No, that was wrong. He _was_ playing games with him. Obviously. But he needed Sherlock's help, needed Sherlock to find what he couldn't find himself. The man couldn't be trusted at all, but he wouldn't throw a riddle at him that Sherlock couldn't solve.  
  
Behind him, Tom yawned and opened his eyes, blinking a few times before looking at Sherlock, shooting him a smile that was brighter than the sun.  
  
"Get dressed," Sherlock only said. "We have a lot of work to do." For he had found something that might turn out to be helpful.  
  
-  
  
There existed a postal address near Cambridge school, where each and every letter for London's very own Odinic Rite was delivered to. Sherlock believed they should be able to find more information there. And he turned out to be right: After a short talk with the receptionist, they received another address, which appeared to be the headquarters of the Rite.  
  
After taking one more cab, Tom and Sherlock stood in front of a large, almost school-like building.  
  
"Are you sure that's the correct address?" Tom asked as they went towards the front door. When Sherlock stayed quiet, he gave a sigh and rang the bell. Soon enough, the door was opened and they stood face-to-face with with a blonde woman dressed in a jacket and skirt combination with a white blouse.  
  
"How may I help you?" she asked with a smile on her lips.  
  
"We're investigators and looking for a few answers," Sherlock responded before shaking her hand and introducing himself.  
  
"Ah, Sherlock Holmes. I have heard of you. But then, who hasn't? Please, come in." They followed her into the building and through a corridor where a handful of paintings and tapestries were hanging on the walls. "How can we help your investigation?"  
  
"We're chasing a criminal who seems to be enthralled with Norse mythology," Sherlock told her as Tom muttered a silent 'Do we?' under his breath. Of course he wouldn't know about it. Sherlock didn't tell him anything. He sighed and examined a painting of Thor and the Midgard Serpent Jörmungandr ("Emil Doepler, 1905").  
  
"Is he? What makes you think so?"  
  
"He told me to look into all available information." Sherlock smiled sweetly. "And what better place to start searching for information could be found than this place? You are experts, after all."  
  
The woman chuckled. "So you want me to give you an abridged version?"  
  
"You could call it that, yes. Though - since I want to know how our criminal thinks - I'd like to know first what makes one believe in Norse gods? Doesn't sound like an obvious first choice, I guess."  
  
"Believing is believing, Mr. Holmes, and believing in the World Tree and the Nine Realms is not weirder than believing the world was created by a man with a long beard in seven days, or is it?"  
  
"Touché."  
  
They reached the door to an office and she invited them in, urging them to take a seat. "We believe in the religion of our ancestors," she began. "It is a part of _our_ history, _our_ culture, of who we are, not something borrowed. It's a part of us."  
  
Sherlock nodded, humming. "Our criminal seems to have taken a liking to jewellery. Are there any special kinds of jewellery involved in the Norse myths?"  
  
"Certainly. The ring Andvaranaut or the necklace Brísingamen, which belongs to the Goddess Freya. Draupnir, the ring of Odin. The gemstone amber is a reoccuring theme as well, for it is said Freya's tears turned to amber."  
  
"Anything with a snake and a wolf?"  
  
She frowned, shaking her head. "There are a snake - or rather, a serpent - and a wolf that play an important role."  
  
"Please elaborate."  
  
Tom frowned as well, because he _knew_ about these stories. He could have told Sherlock, had the man just bothered to ask him. Still, he listened to her story about Loki's four monstrous children - Sleipnir, the eight-legged steed; Jörmungandr, the Midgard Serpent; the giant wolf Fenrir and Hel, Empress over the Dead - and how the latter three would bring forth Ragnarök on the day Loki escaped from the cave he was chained in.  
  
"Why would they want to destroy the world?" Sherlock wondered. "Aren't gods supposed to be good and helpful?"  
  
"It's not about good or evil. It's more about order and chaos. Loki is the God of many things: Mischief, Lies and Chaos, Fire and those things that are magical and seen as 'unmanly'."  
  
"So Loki is a crazy god who should not escape his bindings at all cost?" Sherlock glanced over at Tom with a brow raised, as if Tom was to blame for any of that. "Of all the gods to believe in, you believe in the one that destroys the earth?"  
  
She smiled. "Christianity believes in Judgement Day, the day where the world ends and humans either go to Heaven or Hell, depending whether they are 'good' or 'evil'. We don't believe in good and evil, we believe in a new beginning, the world being reborn. Our Gods are far more forgiving, because they know you can't have light without darkness, order without chaos."  
  
"I see." Sherlock tapped his fingers against the arm rest of the chair. "I have one more question."  
  
"Please, do ask."  
  
"Have you seen this brooch before?" He took his phone out of his pocket, showing it to her (and Tom craned his neck in wonder, because he wanted to see this as well), watching her frown, nodding her head.  
  
"It is one of our possessions, though it's not here at the time being."  
  
"Where is it?"  
  
"The British Museum holds an exhibition, to which we gladly donated it."  
  
That was the moment the questionnaire was over, for Sherlock thanked her curtly and dragged Tom out of the building and into the nearest cab.  
  
-  
  
He had expected many things. Really. What he had not expected was to meet D.I. Lestrade in front of the museum. And if he were honest, there was one more thing he had not expected. "What do you mean, the brooch of Fenrir had been stolen?"  
  
"Well, _guess_ ," Lestrade snarked and leaned back against the police car. "It's strange, actually. Only that brooch is gone. Nothing else. Though there are far more valuable things in that museum."  
  
"What does the security say?"  
  
"Nothing out of the ordinary."  
  
"Surveillance tapes?"  
  
"Nothing strange."  
  
Sherlock cursed and paced around, rattling off thoughts and ideas of which each and every single one had to be denied by Lestrade. No fingerprints, no clues, no nothing. The brooch was just gone, vanished in thin air.  
  
"Why are you here anyway?" Lestrade asked, cocking his head to one side with a grin. "Date with your new boyfriend?"  
  
Tom had the nerve to blush and stammer, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We're investigating. For a case. Like you should be." When Lestrade raised an eyebrow and smirked, Sherlock felt the urge to strangle him with his scarf or beat him to death with his riding crop. "Would you stop -" He broke off as his phone beeped. Another text. From _him_.  
  
 _Meet me in the alley behind the museum in five minutes._  
  
Sherlock gave a sigh and looked over to Tom, who returned the look questioningly. "Go home. Back to Baker Street."  
  
"What?" Confusion arose in these impossibly blue eyes (and Sherlock felt irritated for a second). "Why?"  
  
"I don't want you to get hurt." What had been intended as an excuse turned out to be the truth. He really didn't want Tom to get hurt. Tom was ... not as important as John - no one was, really -, but he still was important to him. In some strange kind of way he couldn't understand yet, because this had nothing to do with logic.  
  
"Well, I don't want you to get hurt, either."  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Lestrade grin broadly, but chose to ignore it for now. "I won't. And now just do as I say." Sherlock watched Tom nod reluctantly, watched him turn around and get into the next cab. Good.  
  
"Not your boyfriend, eh?" Lestrade teased.  
  
"No. And it's none of your business. So shut up or I'll ask about your wife."  
  
-  
  
It was getting dark. Truly, a fitting time for a meeting with a shady figure. Sherlock entered the small, dark alley, looking around. Was he alone? Was it a joke? A trap? Was the guy already after Tom and had only been luring Sherlock away?  
  
"Stay where you are," the voice that was so similar to Tom's commanded from somewhere deeper in the shadows, and Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "That's close enough for now."  
  
"Didn't you promise to talk face-to-face to me?"  
  
"I promised to talk to you in person. Words have meanings, Mr. Holmes, and time just flies by, doesn't it?"  
  
"I still have nine hours."  
  
"Maybe nine hours will not be enough."  
  
Sherlock tensed. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Listen closely. In exactly twenty-five minutes, a plane will leave to Oslo. Guess what's inside one passenger's luggage."  
  
"How do you know this? And if you already know all that, what do you need me for?"  
  
"Two very important questions, Mr. Holmes. Very good. I shall answer them soon, when the time has come. Meanwhile, you might as well believe that this would be a boring game without anybody to play with. And now go, before the brooch is lost forever."  
  
"You want me to come back once I have it?"  
  
"You still have eight hours and fifty-seven minute to deliver it to me. I will contact you."  
  
"Wait! This isn't fair play! Give me something to work with! Who are you? What's your name?"  
  
"I have many names, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"Then it shouldn't be hard give me at least one of them."  
  
The man chuckled. "You may call me Liesmith. Skywalker. Even Wolfsfather, if you'd like. And now I must leave you. Good luck."  
  
There was a flash of green light, making Sherlock go blind for a few seconds. When he could see again, he tried his luck and descended deeper into the alley.  
  
It was empty.  
  
-  
  
Lestrade turned out to be useful after all, for Sherlock himself couldn't very well a) get to Heathrow in time and b) prevent a plane from departing. That he had to put up with the man pestering him with stupid questions about Tom was a downside, but one he had to endure. And maybe even deserved.  
  
"I really am surprised. I thought you and John ... "  
  
"What about me and John?" Sherlock snapped, glaring at Lestrade, who rolled his eyes. "We're not a couple, if you must know."  
  
"You and John or you and that guy?"  
  
"Me and John, for god's sake! Have you forgotten that we are _friends_?"  
  
"So you and that other guy are together?"  
  
"No! I don't think so. Why the hell do you care, anyway?"  
  
Lestrade only smiled.  
  
-  
  
They made it just in time for Lestrade to boast with his police badge - which Sherlock could have done as well, actually, he still had sixteen of those. Seventeen now. Lestrade was being particularly unnerving - and him and Sherlock to question the security personnel if they remembered having scanned ' _this brooch right here, yes, the one on the picture. Oh, don't be stupid, it's not mine, it's evidence. Why would I want to wear something as ugly as this?_ '   
  
Luckily, one of the guards wasn't completely braindead and could describe a middle-aged red-haired man with a goatee who'd had the brooch with him.   
  
Sherlock was very sorry to anounce to the culprit that he couldn't take his flight to Oslo, but would instead take a flight to prison, which was the next best thing.  
  
Also, the brooch turned out to be as big as Sherlock's palm.  
  
"What a creepy thing," Lestrade commented and shook his head. "Why would anyone want to steal something like that?"  
  
Maybe because somebody knew _Skywalker_ needed it. Maybe he had enemies. Maybe Sherlock should retreat to Baker Street very quickly. He closed his hand around the brooch. "It's your job to find out."  
  
"And where do you think you're going with this? It's evidence, if you recall."  
  
"I need it for another case. One with higher priorities."  
  
"Sherlock ... "  
  
Sherlock sighed, pocketing the jewellery, giving Lestrade a serious look. "Trust me. You'll get it back."  
  
"I hope you aren't lying to me."  
  
"Oh, Detective Inspector. I would never."


	7. Chapter 7

When Sherlock returned to Baker Street, he was relieved to find that nothing had happened at all. Tom was still there and alive, the house had not exploded, and hey, John had come home from work as well. Very good.   
  
Or not, he found out quickly, when John gave him one of his more serious glances.   
  
Sherlock let out a sigh and rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming. "What is it this time?"  
  
"He's been here," Tom said quietly. "While we were away."  
  
"Maybe we could make him pay a visitor's fee," John remarked, sipping some tea. "That would make paying the rent so much easier."  
  
Well, he'd had enough time, Sherlock had to grant him that. John had been away since early morning, and he and Tom had left the apartment alone for almost three to four hours as well. Enough time to break in and play another of those stupid riddles. "How do you know?"  
  
"He gave Mrs. Hudson a letter."  
  
Sherlock spun around to John. "Mrs. Hudson? Is she hurt?"  
  
"Don't worry. She is fine."  
  
 _Good ..._ He sighed in relief and blinked as Tom handed over a letter, which included two tickets to a play taking place in the Royal Opera House.  
  
"The tickets are for today," Tom said. "The show starts in about one hour. Since there are only two of them, I think I'll stay here and let you guys have all the fun."  
  
"That won't do. I'd bet he wants you to be there."  
  
"Oh, let me guess," John murmured with a sigh. "I'm going to stand watch outside the Opera House, freezing my arse off and calling you should something strange happen."  
  
Sherlock smirked. "That's what I like about you, John. You're a quick thinker."  
  
-  
  
Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man. Not ever. Especially not while on a case. And especially not while being forced to watch incompetent opera singers in ridiculous costumes and silly helmets yelling at each other in Italian.   
  
At least Tom seemed to enjoy himself, he thought as he glanced over to him. The excitement in his eyes was almost adorable. Almost. Still, Sherlock couldn't wait for the break, because he hoped - he knew - something would happen.  
  
And he should be right. As always.  
  
When they walked back into the lobby, Tom was blabbering nonstop about the costumes and the songs and the story and Sherlock couldn't even stand to listen to him. He was too concentrated on looking around, waiting for something to please, please, please happen. Suddenly, Tom froze and stared in the general direction of somewhere behind Sherlock's right ear.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"I ... nothing."  
  
"I don't believe you for one second."  
  
"I just ... " Tom forced a smile. "I'm seeing things again. I'm nervous, I think. I just ... I just thought I'd seen Loki over there. You know, the one I play on screen."  
  
Sherlock muttered a curse and grabbed Tom's wrist, dragging him over to where Tom's doppelgänger might be hiding.  
  
-  
  
It shouldn't be possible. It _couldn't_ be possible, Tom told himself. It couldn't be him.  
  
But still, _he_ stood there. _He_ and nobody else. It had to be Loki, Tom could feel it. And he couldn't help but notice, how eerily similar and still completely different they both were. Loki's face was thinner, more haggard, making his cheekbones more prominent. He was taller than Tom, at least by a few inches. His black hair went down to his shoulders without the curls Tom himself sported. And his eyes ... they were the most unnatural green he'd ever seen in his life.  
  
"Good evening, Thomas."  
  
Tom only gaped at him, still trying to process the fact that the man - the god - he was playing in a movie was actually real and not a figment of his imagination. At least, Sherlock could see him, too, or Tom would have doubted his mind even more. His mind ... That was when he understood. "You! You did all this! You broke into my house, you threatened me, you -"  
  
"Silence," Loki commanded quietly, with a smile on his lips that was neither nice nor friendly. "This is not the important topic right now, Thomas. Don't you agree, Mr Holmes?" he asked, eyes snapping over to Sherlock. "I assume you have brought my possessions with you. I would like you to hand them over now."  
  
Sherlock hesitated, his eyes hard. "Will this be over then?"  
  
"We'll talk about that in a minute. Now. My belongings, if you were so kind." He tapped his cane against the marbled floor impatiently.  
  
Tom could do nothing but watch as Sherlock reached inside his coat pockets, producing first the brooch, then a jewel case Tom hadn't known about. Slowly, he held them out to Loki, who snatched them out of his fingers, pocketing them ... no, not pocketing them. They simply disappeared.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Is this over now?" Sherlock asked again.   
  
"Who knows?" Loki looked at him with bright green eyes, then started to laugh. "You will see for yourself. For now, enjoy the rest of the play." And with that, he turned around, leaving them.  
  
Tom thought about going after him for a moment, but Sherlock still had a hand wrapped around his wrist. "Don't. He's dangerous."  
  
"... I know."  
  
"Who is he?"  
  
"..." Loki, the God of Mischief, the God of Lies, the God of Chaos. He was real. He was here. He wasn't just a fairytale. "I'm not sure."  
  
"Let's go home," Sherlock said gravely. "I wouldn't trust that guy to not blow up the opera."  
  
-  
  
Sherlock's fingers were flying over the keyboard of John's laptop, his eyes were darting from left to right, trying to process all of the information at once. It didn't make any sense. A ring and a brooch and a strange man. Granted, yes, they did fit the theme of Norse mythology that seemed to be the red thread that was holding this case together. But otherwise ... nothing at all. There was no data about a brooch and a ring as important Norse jewellery to be found, nothing that hinted at the plans of this ... this _man_ he still refused to call Loki, even in his mind. There were no gods running around. None. Of course, he had googled the names the guy had given him, and of course they all had alluded to the Norse God of Mischief (except for 'Skywalker' maybe, but that was to be expected. Even Sherlock had heard the names of Anakin and Luke Skywalker, if only because John would never stop bugging him with those movies), but that didn't help him either. The man was obviously deluded and thinking he himself was Loki, which would explain his fascination with Tom (and the very possible fact that he had undergone plastic surgery to _look_ like a Norse god that didn't exist). But what were his motives? His goals? Sherlock hated to admit it, but he was left in the dark with no light to reach out to. With a frustrated sound, he bangend his right hand onto the table.  
  
He hadn't meant to startle Tom awake, who had fallen asleep on the sofa again, which he was allowed to, since it had been a long day, but he guessed that was bound to happen. Tom blinked and sat upright, stretched his long limbs and scratched the back of his neck, before tilting his head and looking towards Sherlock. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Research."  
  
"Doesn't look like you're successful."  
  
"Hm."  
  
That made Tom chuckle. He stood up, coming over to where Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, and looking over his shoulder. He chuckled again. "Really, that's what you've found out? I could have told you all of this in five minutes."  
  
"I don't believe you're capable of shutting up after five minutes," Sherlock said with a small smile.  
  
"I remember _you_ being very capable of shutting me up," Tom said, chuckling again. He reached out to close the laptop, and when Sherlock looked up to protest - an eyebrow arched -, he said: "Wouldn't you prefer to do something more interesting? Like me?"  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you want to repeat what we did this morning, you could just ask."  
  
"Asking is boring," Tom said, climbing onto Sherlock's lap, kissing his cheek, whispering in his ear. "I don't do asking, Mr. Holmes"   
  
Sherlock flinched, furrowing his brows. "Tom, that isn't funny."  
  
"Tom is not available right now."  
  
"Isn't he?" Was that a game Sherlock didn't know the rules of? Some kind of foreplay? "Then who _is_ available?"  
  
"Oh, don't be disappointing. Have you forgotten me already? We just met a few hours ago in the theatre."  
  
"... Tom, really. Not funny."   
  
Tom's fingers were caressing his cheek, his chin and neck. He was still smiling, watching him. "You don't believe me, do you? What should I do? Show you a magic trick?" He chuckled. "I can't make a pencil disappear, but ... " His fingers slid through Sherlock's hair, and when he pulled them back, he held the silver snake in his hand.  
  
"How did you ... ?" It wasn't easy to render Sherlock Holmes speechless, but seeing this made it possible.  
  
"Isn't it beautiful?" Thom whispered, sliding it on his ring finger, looking at it from all angles, an unexplainable sadness in his eyes.   
  
"How did you steal it back?"  
  
Tom laughed heartily at that. "Yes, Sherlock, how did I steal back a piece of jewellery from a dangerous man, while you were not taking your eyes off me, nonetheless?"  
  
Sherlock blinked, tilting his head. His mind reeled. That wasn't possible, he knew it himself. That would leave only one possibility. "You ... you are ... "  
  
"Not Tom. Correct."  
  
Sherlock tensed, baring his teeth. "What did you do to him?"  
  
"Are you worried?"  
  
"What did you do to him? Where is he?" Sherlock snarled, grabbing the man by the collar.  
  
"Would you like to hear how my henchmen kidnapped him while you weren't looking? How they locked him in a dark room, all alone, all scared? Would you like to hear he's crying and screaming your name in fear right now?"  
  
Sherlock felt a shiver running down his spine. He'd promised to solve this case, promised to protect Tom. And now he had failed? Had left him to his fate? "No," he whispered, "I wouldn't like to hear that."  
  
"Then you should be happy that Thomas is fine."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
"Right here," the man said and smiled a smile that was so gentle, so happy, so like Tom. It was startling to see. Then the smile was gone and replaced by a merciless smirk. "You wanted to talk face-to-face, Sherlock."  
  
"We're not on a first-name basis."  
  
"You and Thomas are."  
  
"You are not Tom."  
  
"Right now? Oh, you have no idea how wrong you are." He slowly got up, turning his back to Sherlock, who promptly reached for his gun, gritting his teeth when a hand - so much stronger, so much more unyielding than Tom's could ever be - wrapped around his wrist, gripping hard.  
  
"I wouldn't do this if I were you," he said, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards, smirking in a way that was unsettling to see on Tom's face, that held only malice and arrogance. "Or you might not see little Thomas again."  
  
Sherlock bared his teeth. "Just tell me what you want."  
  
The smirk disappeared from his lips and his head whipped around as if he were a cornered animal ready to charge. Then he grinned again, all teeth and edge when he saw John coming down the stairs, alerted from the noise they'd made. "Very well," he said, "all of the important people together. How nice. Sit down, John. And be quick about it, or I might feel the need to break Sherlock's wrist."  
  
John wasn't stupid. Thank God. He went over to the other armchair, without sitting down yet, watching the man warily. "Who are you?" he finally asked.  
  
"Ah. This is the important question, isn't it? Though I remember having already told your dear colleague my name more than once."  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "Yes. Liesmith, Wolfsfather, Skywalker. I don't know what you're planning, but you cannot expect anybody to believe that you are the real deal."  
  
"I cannot?" The man still smiled, almost pleasantly so, lowering his lashes. Then he straightened up and held a hand to his chest, looking down at Sherlock and John. "I apologize for not introducing myself correctly before," he said, his green, green eyes brightening, and then the man who looked like Tom but wasn't changed in front of their eyes. The grey shirt and pants transformed into black leather, clinging tightly to his frame. A flash of gold made Sherlock blink and when he opened his eyes again a split-second later, golden armor covered the man's arms and shoulders, a long dark-green cape billowing over his shoulders. "I am Loki," he stated, proudly, arrogantly, while smirking, showing pearl-white teeth, "of Asgard. And you lucky mortals are chosen to fulfill a glorious destiny."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I currently honestly can't decide anymore whether you anons are all the same guy or if I really have an army of anons. Not that I'd mind having an army. ;)

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He must have been drugged. He was hallucinating. They both were, for John could see the ... the being as well if the way he'd dropped his jaw was any indication. But John quickly steadied himself and did the one thing that he thought was reasonable: He reached for the gun, targeting the ... being that was standing in their apartment. "John, don't," Sherlock said hastily. "You might hurt Tom."  
  
"He is right," the man in front them said in a soothing voice that was almost a gentle sing-song. "You might hurt Thomas. But you won't, because I won't let you." He smiled warmly and fixated his eyes on the gun, that - in front of their very own eyes - turned into three small snakes sliding up John's wrists.  
  
John shouted, shaking them off and taking a step backward. When they landed on the floor, they transformed back into the gun. Another hallucination. Now, Sherlock was sure they had been drugged.   
  
"Sit down, John. Don't make me ask a third time," the man snarled, and Sherlock wanted to say that he didn't even ask once. He ordered. And they both had no choice but to follow these orders as long as they did not know what had happened to Tom. So John sat down, still eying the gun warily, and the man smiled. "Very good. Now we can talk like civilized people."  
  
"I wouldn't call stalking and harassing 'civilized'," sherlock told him, leaning back in his armchair. "But, please do talk. Where is Tom?"  
  
"Right here." The man - oh, alright, he might as well call him Loki now - put a hand to his chest. "I'm just ... using his body for a while."  
  
"Oh, the Body-Snatcher form Outer Space talks about being civilized. I see," John snarked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.  
  
Loki looked at him smiling. "Be silent, John Watson, or I might feel inclined to cut off your tongue." He grinned when John pursed his lips and averted his gaze. "I know you have been researching me, Sherlock. Tell me what you found out."  
  
Sherlock looked at him unfazed. "You're the ... the God of Mischief." The word tasted so wrong on his tongue. "Among other things. I've read about your lips being sewn shut." Loki flinched and Sherlock made a mental note about that. "I've heard and read about your children."  
  
"Ah, yes. We're getting closer to our goal. What have you heard?"  
  
He took a deep breath. This wasn't easy. Not at all. And not only because it sounded so stupid, so wrong. "Four monsters and two evil twins ... "  
  
"They were not evil!" Loki shouted, slamming his hands down onto the table, making John flinch and Sherlock raise his brows. "You might ... you can say a lot about me. But my children never were evil."  
  
"A giant serpent said to devour the earth. A gigantic wolf. An undead girl. That doesn't sound very not-evil to me."  
  
Loki was silent, still hunched over the table, not moving an inch. Then, before anybody could react, he moved an arm, wiping the table clean. The chinaware shattered, hot tea pouring out and running over the carpet. "My children, Sherlock Holmes," he said between clenched teeth, looking at him out of unnaturally green eyes, "are unfortunately not looking like other children. Except for the twins. They were beautiful. They were perfect."  
  
"They are dead."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," Loki said, grinning like the madman he was. "They were punished for their father's stupid mistakes. Tell me, Sherlock, is this justice? To kill two small children because their father couldn't hold his silver tongue?"  
  
Sherlock slowly shook his head.  
  
"Exactly." He exhaled audibly. "The twins are dead. My other children are not. Sleipnir is safe where he is, but the other three ... " He broke off, caressing the wooden table with one finger. Pictures appeared, burned into the wood, even though they were moving. A small serpent hatching, growing, hiding until a man Sherlock knew was supposed to be Thor threw it into the seas of Midgard, where it grew and grew, imprisoned so far away from home, cursed with loneliness. A tiny pup, living in the woods, taking care of itself, happy with glee when its father came to visit. It grew as well, turned out to be bigger than the biggest of men, attacking those who tried to slaughter it until it was finally bound to the forest ground by a sword being struck through its tongue. A girl, half alive, half dead, half beautiful, half corpse, who turned everything to ashes that she touched. Cast out into the realm of the dead where she would watch over them and grant life to those worthy of being reborn.   
  
Sherlock had to say, he was impressed. And he understood Loki's anger, his sadness, his wish to reclaim his children.  
  
"When I was imprisoned in this cave, the All-Father decided it was too dangerous to let my children roam the realms freely. With ancient magic, he stole their souls and imprisoned them in three fine pieces of jewellery, crafted by the dwarves. A ring, forged out of a poison fang of Jörmundgandr. A brooch made out of Fenrir's claws. And ... a necklace. Woven out of the silver hair of my daughter Hel." With a flick of his wrist, the pictures disappeared, even though the smell of burnt wood was still in the air. "I want my children back, Mr. Holmes."  
  
"When you get them back, what then? Will you bring Ragnarök upon this world?" John inquired. "Will you kill us all?"  
  
"No. ... no. My children are not evil. They never meant harm."  
  
"But the prophecy will fulfill itself, won't it?" Sherlock pressed his fingertips together. "I can't help you anymore. Not if that means people will die."  
  
"There _will_ be people dying if you _don't_ , Sherlock Holmes!" Loki hissed, his lips curling upward. "Including yourself, John, our good friend Thomas. In fact, I will start with him. Believe me, there are enough people in this world willing to help me."  
  
"Then why did you come to me?"  
  
"Because you are halfway intelligent. Now, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, bring me that necklace. Find it. Today."  
  
"Where should we start?"  
  
Loki smiled. "Search for the World Tree."  
  
Sherlock blinked, wondering. But before he could ask what Loki meant, the man went on speaking:  
  
"And take care of Thomas. He is ... very dear to me." Loki smiled, then his expression grew black, his eyes rolled up in the back of his head and Tom's body went completely limp, falling forward.   
  
Quickly, Sherlock catched him and lowered him onto the sofa.  
  
"I think," John said, "I'm going to get rid of the chinaware shards."  
  
-  
  
Tom opened his eyes, groaning, only to see Sherlock standing over him. "Huh?"  
  
"Are you alright?"  
  
"I think so, yes. I had the strangest dream ... "  
  
"There's nothing stranger than reality," Sherlock said darkly. "He was here."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Loki." He gave Tom a quick recap of what had happened while he'd been asleep, finishing with "And now we're searching the World Tree. Whatever that might be."  
  
"Highgate Cemetery."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He showed me ... he showed me many things," Tom said, sadness in his eyes. "Highgate Cemetery. There is a cedar tree in front of the entrance to the catacombs."  
  
"And a cedar tree is ..."  
  
Tom looked up at him, his face serious. "A World Tree. Yes."  
  
The sixth day of the end of the world started with a merry drive to the cemetery.  
  
-  
  
"I'm not going to come with you," Tom said as they reached the catacombs. "I'm going to stay here. You can't make me go in there."  
  
"You'd be safer with us," Sherlock reminded him.  
  
"I don't care. I need to be alone for a while."  
  
Sherlock looked at him concerned, then nodded. "Wait for us." He watched Tom sitting down next to the cedar tree, then he turned around to enter the catacombs together with John.  
  
"Shouldn't we have waited for a tour guide?" John asked when he turned on his torch, illuminating the walls that were scattered with bones.   
  
"What we're searching for doesn't need a tour guide."  
  
"Yes, but ... it is awfully creepy in here."  
  
"Do you want to wait with Tom together?"  
  
"No. He ... he's strange today, isn't he? Though I'd be behaving strangely, too, if I had my body misused by a lunatic Norse god."  
  
"Hm." They ventured deeper into the catacombs, looking at inscriptions - Latin, Latin, English, Latin - and countless skulls lined up on the walls.   
  
"But I think it's something else that's bugging him."  
  
"John?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Focus."  
  
"... sorry."  
  
They went on in silence, examining the skulls and walls without finding anything out of the ordinary. That was, until John grabbed Sherlock by the sleeve and pointed at one skull. "Look at that!"  
  
Sherlock leaned in, brows furrowed. There was ... a tiny marking on the skull, almost resembling a Nordic rune. Sherlock reached into his pocket, producing notebook and pen, and scribbled it down. "There must be more of those. Look everywhere!"  
  
And so they did. They searched for runes while countless skulls were watching them with empty eye sockets, grinning at their scrutinity.  
  
-  
  
"Let's go," Sherlock said when they left the catacombs.  
  
Tom looked up in surprise at the state of his clothing, which were covered in dust and dirt everywhere. "I see you had a lot of fun."  
  
"It was delightfully funny. You missed a lot."  
  
Tom chuckled and got up, brushing the dirt from his pants.   
  
On the way back to the bus, Sherlock was thinking about what those runes could mean.  
  
-  
  
"They don't even make any sense," he complained, looking at an online dictionary. "These runes don't exist."  
  
That meant they were no runes, but ... yes, but what? He scribbled them down, again and again, changing their position, their direction. He blinked. It appeared like ... some of the symbols could fit together. Like a picture. If he tweaked here a little and there a little, it even made sense. And so, line after line, the strange runelike symbols revealed a picture of a woman standing in front of a tree that looked remarkably like the cedar tree they'd seen just a few hours ago.  
  
And he had seen the picture as well. But where? On google? No ... Oh, yes. In the headquarters of the Odinic Rite. It was one of the tapestries they'd passed. And he remembered the tree on the tapestry being stitched on with silver threads.  
  
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, he better get back to the cemetery.   
  
Without telling Tom and John where he was going, he left Baker Street for the upteenth time these days.  
  
-  
  
Shovel in hand, he climbed over the cemetery gates. It was a good thing the cemetery was closed already, for he was sure he'd be having some problems explaining that no, he was not going to dig up some graves. Really. No, he was no graverobber. He only wanted to imitate Nidhögg and play with the roots of the World Tree. No, please not the nice men with the white labcoats and the straightjacket, he wasn't crazy. Yet. With a sigh, he looked the tree up and down, nodding to himself.  
  
And then he started to dig.  
  
And dig.  
  
And dig.  
  
Deeper and depper.  
  
His breathing came fast and uneven and sweat was running down his face, even though it was still January and it should be freezing. It more or less was, actually, which made digging even harder. But later, much, much later, when he was standing in a hole that was almost as tall as he himself was, he saw something small twinkle in the last gleams of the evening sun, entwined with the roots.  
  
With shaking fingers, he reached out, carefully taking it in hand. It really was a necklace, looking so delicate, so fragile, he almost feared it would break between his fingers.   
  
Then, as expected, he got another text.  
  
 _Tomorrow. At dawn. On Primrose Hill._  
  
-  
  
That evening, Sherlock was lying on his bed, staring at the ceilling. _Tomorrow_ , he thought. _Tomorrow, everything will be over. Loki will have what he wants, Tom will go home and we all go back to our normal lives. If we should survive tomorrow, that is._ He still wasn't too sure about Ragnarök and Loki reuniting the souls of his children, but he didn't have a say in the matter. And he didn't have a choice but helping him. Otherwise, they'd all be dead as well and Loki would find another idiot to follow his orders. _Then it's a good thing I'm that idiot_ , he thought darkly. He had believed him when he'd said he'd kill them all, starting with Tom. And wasn't that the real reason why he hadn't told Loki to screw himself? That he really didn't want Tom to get hurt? How remarkable that the thought of losing one single person could force Sherlock to go against his very own beliefs. But then, hadn't his beliefs been thrown out of the window the very second Loki had proven to be a real god?  
  
There was a knock at his door. "Come in," he said loudly without moving an inch or even looking towards the door.  
  
"We need to talk." Tom - and it was Tom this time, right? - closed the door behind him. "Right now."  
  
"Shouldn't you be sleeping? We have to get up early."  
  
"Every time I fall asleep, something weird or unpleasant happens, like magic burning through my wall or Norse gods taking over my body or ... or you having sex with me."  
  
Ah. That was it. "Look, I -"  
  
"I know why you did it," he said curtly. "I saw a few things while Loki was in charge of me. I saw him giving you the order to screw me through the mattress."  
  
"He certainly didn't word it like that."  
  
"You know what I mean!"  
  
Yes. He did. And he was very sure he wasn't going to like that talk. "Tom, look, I -"  
  
"You used me."  
  
"I did what what was necessary for the case and for saving your life!"  
  
"By using and taking advantage of me."  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, I had sex with you. Don't act like I killed your cat!"  
  
"I don't have a cat," Tom said sourly.  
  
"I know!" Sherlock sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I ... come here, will you?" Reluctantly Tom complied, sitting down on the edge of the bed, still shooting accusing glances at Sherlock, which was quite distressing and annoying, because Sherlock was the only one allowed to look at people like that. It was unnerving to have this tactic used against him. It was only fair to be unfair as well, so he shuffled over and hugged Tom, who tensed in his arms. "I'm sorry. I really am. Maybe I should have spoken with you beforehand."  
  
"Maybe." Tom snorted, but still relaxed slowly. "'Maybe', he says. Well, maybe I'm fucking pissed at you right now."  
  
"And you have been the whole day?"  
  
"... maybe." He lowered his gaze and gave a sigh.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. And he really was. "Tom? Let's talk about everything tomorrow, alright? When this is over. When we have the time for it." Tom nodded slowly whithout looking at him, and Sherlock added: "If you'd like, you can stay here for the night."  
  
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea."  
  
"I could take care that nothing happens while you sleep."  
  
Tom hesitated, sighing again and leaning further into the embrace, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder. And then he nodded slowly. "Thank you."  
  
"It's the least I can do. Good night, Tom," he said quietly when Tom curled up against him.  
  
If he were to be honest with himself, he'd admit that he really did watch over him the whole night. And maybe, but only maybe, he caught himself running his fingers through Tom's hair.  
  
But he wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if he ever were honest with himself.


	9. Chapter 9

The seventh day of the end of the world was the day where everything should come to an end.  
  
The three of them managed to get to Primrose Hill ten minutes before dawn. Sherlock had the necklace in his pocket and looked around, waiting for Loki to appear. He and John stood to either side of Tom, essentially flanking him, should the inevitable happen and should Loki try to get his hands on him.   
  
Dawn came.  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
"Do you think he's toying with us?"  
  
"He has been toying with us all week, John."  
  
"You know what I mean. Maybe he doesn't even intend to come, maybe he's just luring us out here for fun."  
  
"If that's fun, then why am I not laughing?" Tom said, looking pale and sick.  
  
Sherlock looked at him concerned. "Are you alright?"  
  
"I ... " Whatever Tom tried to say next, it was swallowed by a pained groan before he went limp in Sherlock's arms.   
  
"Not again!" John hissed through his teeth, helping to support Tom's weight. "That has happened before, and it has been bad before and this is very much not good."  
  
The only thing that was not good was the fact that when Tom regained consciousness, he wasn't Tom anymore. Again. Loki shoved the two men off, brushing an imaginery piece of dust off his shoulders, smiling sweetly at Sherlock and John. "Good morning, gentlemen."  
  
Sherlock only looked at him with a cold glare, handing over the necklace wordlessly, watching Loki pocket it. "Now let him go."  
  
"Oh, I cannot do this. Dear Thomas is elementary for the next step."  
  
"What next step?"  
  
"Freeing my children and causing the end of the world, of course."  
  
"But you said -," John started, but quickly shut his mouth again when Loki started to laugh.  
  
"You really believed me? How cute. You seem to have forgotten that I am the God of Lies, Dr. Watson. But you knew, didn't you?" he asked, looking at Sherlock from underneath his lashes. "You knew this could happen. And you still decided to sacrifice the world to save him. Isn't it cute what love can do?"  
  
"I am not in love."  
  
Loki only smiled. "Of course not. But at least you can relate to me. You sacrifice the world for one man, I sacrifice it for my children."  
  
Green mist twirled around his fingers, effectively knocking John and Sherlock to the ground, while Loki took small, deliberate steps forward, incantating words in a language Sherlock had never heard before. The mist surrounded him, spiralling around his arms and hands and body and his clothing changed to the black and green leather and golden armour, his fingers drawing strange patterns into the air.  
  
"John, I think this would be the right time to shoot."  
  
"I'm inclined to agree." John drew the gun, pointing at at Loki - how ironic. They had taken the gun with them to save Tom, should Loki try any of his little stunts. There wasn't much saving involved right now. The gunshot cracked through the air, splitting the silence. Not that it mattered, though. Loki deflected the bullet through some kind of ... magical barriere (and it was so hard for Sherlock to use that word, even in his thoughts). "It didn't work," John said.  
  
"I can see."  
  
"What can we do now?"  
  
"I don't think we can do anything."  
  
"So we should just ... let him blow up the world?" John's voice grew tight, serious. "Sherlock, you always have an idea that saves the day, now would be a good time to tell me!"  
  
"John. This time, I am as lost as you are."  
  
-  
  
In the end, the burden to save the world fell to Tom Hiddleston.   
  
-  
  
Loki gathered the three pieces of jewellery, bewitching them further, making them glow brighter than any star could shine. Soon. So soon. He would be reunited with his loved ones, would free them from their cages, would free their minds and souls and beings. And everyone who had stood in his way would have to pay a horrible price. He laughed, loudly, almost hysterically so as he pictured his father and brother with the little toys they called weapons, when actually it was _Loki_ who held all the power in the world through his magic.   
  
The laugh died in his throat and his eyes grew wide when he felt something that should not, could not happen: The jewellery stopped glowing, and he felt a pang of pain in his mind, felt the struggle of another soul that should have been swallowed and devoured already.  
  
"No," he whispered. "No, stop it. You're destroying everything we've worked for." The pain grew worse, unbearing. His insides hurt as if they were on fire. Loki gritted his teeth, sinking to his knees, whimpering. "Not now. Not now, stop it!" A scream was ripped out of his throat as the body he occupied regained its mortal owner and Loki was thrown out of Tom Hiddleston by force.  
  
-  
  
Tom coughed, choked, dug his fingers into the the grass beneath him. When he opened his eyes, he saw Loki towering over him, teeth bared, fists clenched. A boot connected with Tom's side, making him wince in pain.  
  
"You!" Loki spat. "How did you break free? You shouldn't be able to stop me!"  
  
"But I am," Tom whispered breathless. "Because you need me. Because you're lost without me."  
  
"Be quiet, Hiddleston, or I will rip out your tongue!"  
  
Tom got to his feet slowly, staggering. Without fear, he looked at the god that was so different from him, and yet they were so strikingly similar. "Not only your children were taken from you in that cave."  
  
The cave. Yes. Tom shuddered. He had seen it in Loki's mind, had felt his pain. Hundreds of years of pain. Tom had felt all of it, had ... had remembered it. _Because I've been there._ "You need me to rescue your children, because ... " It sounded crazy, sounded wrong, sounded impossible even to himself. "Because I am you."  
  
"Don't flatter yourself, Hiddleston. You aren't worth that much." Loki laughed, but it was without humour. "You are an unnecessary obstacle, ripped out of my chest, because when we were lying in that cave, writhing in our bonds, screaming in pain -" He was shaking at the memory, gritting his teeth again. "- you were telling me to forgive them, to understand them. I didn't need you and your kindness and your compassion."  
  
"But you do now." His voice was calmer than he should feel in the presence of a very pissed Norse god. But he knew Loki couldn't hurt him, couldn't ... force him to fulfill his goals. At least he thought so, but then Loki's hand shot out and grabbed Tom by the throat, choking the air out of his lungs. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Sherlock and John advancing - John with the gun still in hand -, but he shooed them away with urgent gestures.  
  
"You will reunite with me, Hiddleston," Loki yelled at him, a manic glare in his eyes. "You will make me become whole again, give me the power to free my children. Otherwise, you will die!"  
  
Die? Wouldn't he die as well when Loki ... did what? Absorb him? Unite with him? He wanted to say something, but he didn't have the air to speak, to breathe, to think. Loki threw him to the ground and he coughed again, blinking tears out of his eyes. The boot connected to his side once more, ripping a strangled sob out of his mouth.  
  
"Did you hear me? Did you, Hiddleston? I will rip your beating heart out if you disobey me further!" The air around them was thick with magic and Loki's eyes were blazing with a green fire.   
  
"Do it, then," Tom said and forced a laugh. "Kill me. Kill all the kindness that you once possessed. It won't bring your children back." He got up again, reaching out and cupping Loki's face between his hands. "You know I speak the truth."  
  
Loki jerked back as if slapped, but Tom held onto him, held him close, wrapped his arms around him. Loki struggled, shivered violently, but Tom held onto him as if his life were hanging on a thread. Which it probably was. "Let me go!"  
  
"You need me," he said quietly. "You don't want to be like this. You don't want to be pain and hatred and fear. Do you really believe your children would want to see you like this? Do you think they would even recognize you?"  
  
"I ... "  
  
"You can't have this world. If this means you can't have your kids back, then so be it."  
  
"No ... " His voice was shaking, a sob escaping his lips. "Please, I ... "  
  
"We will work it out. Together."  
  
And then Tom felt Loki dig his fingers into his back, felt Loki's face pressed against his shoulder. Felt Loki weep and cry and shed all the tears of thousands of years.  
  
 _Nobody would ever believe me that I just saved the world with a hug._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember I said this is written for a contest? Well, you can now [vote](http://loki-hiddleston.deviantart.com/journal/Literature-Voting-Poll-317332442) which fic should win. If you like this one, give it a vote. If you prefer another one, vote for that. Just check them all out, there are some wonderful gems over there.


	10. Epilogue

On the day the world did not end, there were four people sitting in Baker Street 221B, sipping tea. John and Sherlock had agreed to take Loki along ("Only if he pays for the cab", John had said.) and now Sherlock was watching him, never looking away.   
  
"Could you stop that?" Tom said and draped a blanket over Loki's shoulders. "He's been under enough stress without you looking at him with that 'I will stare at you until you get creeped out'-look."  
  
"You _are_ aware he tried to kill you?" John asked, blinking in disbelief. "And now you're doting on him like you're his mother."  
  
"He is incapable of doing otherwise," Loki said, accepting the cup of tea Tom handed over to him. "He is kindness reincarnated."  
  
John nodded, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Yes, about that ... how exactly did you say this works?"  
  
"After hundreds of years of torture, Loki snapped and got rid of the last shreds of kindness and love inside of him, shattering his sanity. This love and kindness was somehow sent to earth to be reborn as Tom." Sherlock explained it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.  
  
John looked at him, crosing his arms in front of his chest. "You mean, you understand that stuff?"  
  
"Just because I understand it, doesn't mean I believe it."  
  
"You don't have to," Tom responded, sitting down next to Loki and taking a sip of his own tea. "I do. I don't just believe, I know it's the truth."  
  
"Hm."  
  
Tom ignored him and turned to Loki. "What will you do now?"  
  
"I ... don't know. I have spent so much time travelling the realms in search of my children that I have neglected the thoughts of 'What then?'."  
  
"You could go home."  
  
Loki chuckled and shook his head. "I have no home."  
  
"You have people who love you."  
  
"Have I? Where exactly? In Asgard, where they locked me away and tortured me for ages?"  
  
Tom lowered his gaze. He remembered all of it. Remembered the burning feeling of the snake's poison, the agony and loneliness and fear. "They still love you."  
  
"You are an idiot, Thomas."  
  
"But he's right," Sherlock said with a nod.  
  
"If you believe that, then you are an idiot as well."  
  
Sherlock's lips twitched. "You are angry at them for taking away your children. But what are you doing to your parents? You are stealing their son from them as well."  
  
Loki blinked, his face twisting in confusion, uncertainty, a sudden realisation. "I ... can't go back. Not the way I am right now. I am not whole, not ... mentally stable enough."  
  
Tom looked down at his cup, thinking. Then he said: "I will come with you."  
  
"What?" John asked. "To Asgard? To another planet?"  
  
"Home," Tom only said. "But ... only temporary. Only until everything is normal again. I still belong here, but I belong there as well."  
  
Loki was obviously just as surprised as John by that statement. Only Sherlock nodded slowly. "I see," he said, voice thick with ... feelings? Sadness? Tom wasn't sure.  
  
"I will come back. And then ... then we will talk about other things." He tried to smile, only to look away quickly when he saw the expression on Sherlock's face. "I'm sorry. This is important."  
  
"Nobody is holding you back," Sherlock said and stood up abruptly, leaving the room.  
  
"About this," Loki whispered to Tom. "I wish to apologize. I wanted to hurt you, make you unstable, so our reunion could be easier."  
  
"I know ... " Tom sighed gravely, smiling a forced smile when he'd rather cry. "No hard feelings."  
  
"You're incapable of hard feelings," Loki reminded him.  
  
But apparently he wasn't incapable of sadness.  
  
-  
  
This very night, there was a beam of lighting charging towards the sky that could be mistaken for a lightning bolt by those who didn't know better. John was standing at the window, watching the phenomenon while Sherlock sat in his armchair, eyes forcibly focused on the newspaper. "Are they gone?"  
  
"It seems so." John turned around. "Will you miss him while he's gone?"  
  
"Why should I? He's been nothing but an inconvinience, nothing but trouble. There's a reason why so-called gods should stay away from human matters."  
  
"You know as well as I that I'm not talking about Loki."  
  
Sherlock didn't answer verbally, but the small, slightly sad smile on his lips was saying more than a thousand words could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who stayed with me until the very end: Thank you very much. For those of you who didn’t: I apologize for not having been more entertaining.
> 
> As already stated, this has been written for the contest held over at the Loki-Hiddleston group on DA. In turn, to meet the deadline, everything from chapter 4 until the the epilogue has been written during 12 hours.
> 
> A big thank you to [Vauvenal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vauvenal/pseuds/Vauvenal) for RPing this with me (during one complete week in May, every night over the phone, two to five hours a night), and for beta reading the first three parts. I love you, darling. Another thank you to [Pon](http://fish-wifey.tumblr.com/) for beta reading the rest of the fic. Even though she hates me now, because she is a very strict and monogamous JohnLock shipper. And also because she had a lot of work to do. ILU BB.
> 
> And - again - thank you for reading and enjoying. Have a wonderful time. And if it’s all the same for you, I’ll have a drink now.


End file.
